For What it's Worth
by malfunctionjunction
Summary: One day Bruce decides it's time to discuss a topic that Dick has been easing himself away from for some time. This is what the boy wonder gets when his mentor is a world billionaire playboy.


**A/N: **Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson centric, but it isn't yaoi. No slash. I hope you all enjoy the oneshot. Happy Valentine's Day.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Young Justice or any other DCAU related merchandise.

* * *

"You might as well do it."

Not a question. Not a command. But a statement. It was one of the rare moments when he wasn't barking out commands and orders, methods of handling a life or death situation. On the opposite side of the dinner table, his eyes circled with surprise but on the inside they held the expectation he always held for him. His hand was reaching for the bagel that had been spread with cream cheese, but he slowly backed away from it, staring at the older man as he did. He wanted to glare but couldn't. He wanted to counter his statement with a witty retort but couldn't. He sat in his chair uneasily, and he stared at him expectedly, because he knew he wasn't finished, not yet.

Bruce's face was concealed by the newspaper he was reading, and he read it in a manner that told others that he was truly interested in what was in the print. _Maybe he is interested_, Dick inside voice spoke, _it's a way to acquire information, after all._ The man had always been about information; as the say goes, knowledge is power. Bruce had gone quiet, and all that was heard in his direction was the soft flipping of the newspaper. So Dick waited and he waited, he waited until he kicked the bottom of the table with his foot, sending vibrations down the table to Bruce. Although he had participated in stealthy missions, waited patiently for criminals to reveal their acts of crime and faces behind self crafted masks, he was still a boy, a thirteen year old one at that, and he couldn't wait for long.

The only sign of recognition he was given by Bruce was a side glance from the newspaper he was holding. The look peered across the table, and on the inside the look agitated Dick because he had seen the look numerously in the past and the present. It's a look that read and scrutinized him simultaneously, and it failed to cover the fact that Bruce was already of aware of what was going on. Dick could only roll his eyes and sigh; he slumped in his chair, softly beating the side of his chair with his feet.

"You could've just asked you know," he mumbled, "it wouldn't be that hard."

He flipped the newspaper again, "You wouldn't have answered me if I had asked. I've realized that the best methods are the most straight forward ones," from behind the newspaper he gave him a pointed look, "especially when dealing with teenagers."

Dick didn't attempt to hide the shade of frustration that slid perfectly on his face. He stabbed a piece of his eggs with his forks, and mixed with the two strips of bacon that grew cold from intentional neglect. "Even if you had asked, it's not like you'd let me do it. Remember, priorities come first."

Bruce didn't have to stifle his annoyance or give a sign to convey that he was becoming so. With a sharp shake of his hands, he straightened the wrinkles out of the newspaper. "Priorities do come first," a touch of his Batman voice slipped in, "and you must always think of them."

"Of course I think of them!" Frustration was laced into anger within his young voice, and he threw the fork on the plate, pieces of egg and bacon bounced off it, "But most kids don't have to worry over the priorities I have to, and besides, I wouldn't have the time to do it anyways."

"I could name a few," Bruce countered casually, "who are doing what you are doing, maybe more."

"That's irrelevant," he snipped, "and totally not my point."

The newspaper fell on the table, and Dick gazed as Bruce folded it, returning it to its former shape. "Then, what is your point?"

As he thought of the question, he realized that if Bruce had inquired earlier that morning, about the time he exited the shower, he would've been able to give him an honest answer. It would've been an easy answer; it would've been an answer from the top of his head. Sitting in the chair, a frown crept deeply on his face, and Richard Grayson couldn't provide an answer to the simple question. At one point of time the answer had been there, it had, but it wasn't, not anymore. He leaned on his arm, cupping his cheek into his hand, and huffed out a disappointed breath. He didn't care if he answered the question or not; he didn't care what Bruce had to say about it, not much.

"No response."

"You're so full of it." He moved his eyes toward the window, where rays of sunlight flew quietly in, "I know priorities come first, they always do. But, I guess, I just wanted to have some fun. Normal fun. Do what the majority of American kids do on a Saturday night, without worries or duties, just a little while."

It wasn't that Dick expected an immediate response. Bruce's nature didn't permit to give immediate answers; for an answer to be true and just, he had to think, he always had to think. Dick was far from being impressed or shocked when Bruce fell into one of his infamous silences, a point where Dick knew not to interrupt or disturb. Time had an uncanny ability of moving slowly during those silences, and he wasn't entirely sure how long it was until the man spoke again. It could've been hours, but he knew it wasn't that long. Most likely it was a brief period of minutes; the silence drew on and on, Dick grew restless for a response.

When Bruce's eyes were set across the table, aiming for Dick's sky blue orbs, the boy knew they were speaking to him, "Live the American dream."

He pushed his body against the cushion of the chair, "Not exactly." As an after thought, "Just the preteen version."

In between another interval existed before Bruce spoke again. "Like I said, you might as well do it," he continued on when he saw the young boy's lips begin to part, "if you've given this much thought about it, it would be a waste to let it go without a fight." If he found Dick's incredulous expression amusing, he didn't show it. His face was a mask that had been crushed, molded, and process repeated at a constant rate.

"You're serious?" He blindly composed himself, but the excitement escaped his mouth, "You're serious, serious?"

Bruce rose from the dinner table. His eyes didn't move to his watch, but the man knew it was getting late. He preferred not to hear the mumbled but scolding tone of his secretary in the morning. "How serious can I get?"

Dick blinked once, then twice, and one more time for the sake of it. "Well...," he chuckled, "there's Bruce Wayne serious and there's _you know who_ serious. It's hard to define the line, if you know what I mean." Dick didn't hesistate using his fingers for emphasis on define.

Bruce was leaving the dining room with the newspaper under one arm when he sent a half-hearted glare that didn't make Dick flinch or cower in fear. "Do you want a ride to school or not?"

Automatically, the words clicked inside the brain, Dick hopped from his chair and gleefully followed his guardian. His lips were spread in a cheeky but grinning manner, and in one hand he held the cream cheese spread bagel that had gone uneaten. He hastily shoved it into his mouth and started to chew on it hungrily; the soft mumbling of his devouring was heard in the hallways until the front door closed shut. On the sidelines, hidden in the darkness of the kitchen, Alfred observed the scene with a passive but satisfied appearance on his face. He entered the dinning room to clean the mess once he was sure the pair had left for their respective days.

* * *

In comparison to his home life, school was persistent as ever on its dull and uneventful stance. By time the noon bell had rung, signaling the brief intersession students called recess, Dick felt the brain cells inside his brain spark and set aflame from mental exhaustion. The balance meal the school provided was edible, but the bland and somewhat sour taste of the meal was something Dick always found himself forcing down his throat. It was a repeated question to himself, _Why don't I just ask Alfred to make me lunch? _The thirteen year old boy doubted that his middle aged butler would understand his reasonings behind it; _One of these days_, he snickered inwardly, _I'll show him why_. The combination of bland and somewhat sour wasn't a good one. Although the food was a major thought in Dick's consciousness, he realized he had been given a precious opportunity. As an act of force habit, Dick intended to take advantage of that opportunity.

Pushing his food aside, to the trash can, Dick maneuvered his body away from the table where his group of friends gathered to. One of his friends, one of the more careful ones, noticed his departure and called out to him.

"Where ya going Grayson?" He chuckled knowingly, "We're going to play basketball on the court."

He wanted to glare angrily at the boy, but it would be an instant identifier that something was up. Feigning innocence, he pulled out a casual grin, "Yeah, see you guys in a bit, I have something to do." He waved a careless wave at his friends while he opened the doors to the cafeteria, moving into the nearly hallways.

Each footstep sounded off a wave of echoes. The majority was silent, but there were teachers who were not on recess duty that scaled the large range of hallways in Gotham Academy. Many of the students were dismayed by it; however, Dick couldn't compare himself to his classmates, not completely, so he walked in the hallways without much regard. Thinking back on it, when he was given a small respite, maybe he should've been more cautious. Maybe he should've taken care of the teachers that did scale the hallways at all time during the school day and probably after. He was going to make a right turn, near the guidance counselor's office, when an ear piercing voice rushed behind him, halting him in his steps. Loud, slamming heels pressed firmly on the marble tiled floor as they approached him, and Dick inwardly groaned because he knew who the woman was, and it was a woman whom he truthfully didn't want to be bothered with.

The teacher had a notorious reputation for being a controlling woman and a busy body at that.

"Mr. Dick Grayson," he flinched at her nasally voice, "an unfamiliar sight during recess period. May I ask, what are you doing in the school halls?"

Mrs. Middleton wasn't the sort of woman who could be swayed by an award winning smile or smooth words. Dick didn't do neither. His eyes darted to her horn rimmed glasses, and he spoke in a stern but respectful voice as he explained his reasons for loitering in the halls. In back of the horn rimmed glasses, keen eyes searched him for any scent of dishonesty. It had taken some time, he was truly growing impatient, but in due time she did nod her head without smiling and gave the notion of guiding him to his destination. Like she said, _"No need for loitering, pointless crime I say!"_

"It is good to see a brilliant student sharpening his skills," she reported as they walked side by side, "the library is a wonderful substitute for heathen sports."

He died a little on the side at her callous remarks but refused to react to them, "Yes Mrs. Middleton."

Relief swam into his veins when he saw the two, familiar oak doors come into view. The walk wasn't long, but it was an uncomfortable walk, mainly due to Mrs. Middleton. Dick held back the urge to break into a full blown sprint as they closed in on the doors. Her heavy, block like heels continued to slam on the marble tile floors as they approached near; Dick was amazed at the rising volume of her heels. _Poor floor, _he thought, _no inanimate object deserves such an unjust punishment._ Again, the walk wasn't a lengthy one, and for that, he was extremely grateful. Mrs. Middleton stopped at the door, and she gave him a bitter look. In her eyes she dared him to say something in response to it, but Dick hadn't fallen into her little game of trick and detention.

"Remember Richard Grayson," her nasally, sharp voice sounded in his ears, "the library is a privilege, not a right. Respect it, and it will respect you in return."

Dick nodded but said nothing until he felt it was right, "Yes, Mrs. Middleton. Thank you for the...company."

The two nodded before the woman departed, her loud, slamming, and heavy heels echoing in the hollow hallways.

There were many good things about Gotham Academy's library. It was one of the largest school libraries in the state, and it had unlimited access to numerous resources for the students' use. It wasn't as large as Gotham's public library, but it was larger than the average school library. It dominated its vast competition. After passing the front desk and giving Mrs. Loftin, the school librarian, a friendly wave and smile, Dick slipped into the massive collection of book shelves Gotham Academy had to offer. There were cases, more than the school administration would've liked to admit, when students had gotten lost in the shelves of the library. The many aisles were similar to a maze, and it was fairly easily to lose oneself in the maze. Dick was one of the few students who knew the aisles of the library inside and out; half of the blame could be put on the many assignments he had been given by his teachers, and the other half was more of a self-interested sort. The task he assigned himself to wasn't a difficult one, but it wasn't an entirely simple one. He knew who was looking for, and he knew what he was aiming for.

Really, it was only a matter of time until he found that person.

He didn't have to think on it; he already knew where she would be.

In the darkness he hid from her eyesight; he felt his palms growing wet with sweat for the first time.

The girl was in the middle of the section. Her eyes were peeled into her a book, and her thick hair were in two, tightly braided French twists. The entire time he stood there, she was oblivious of his presence.

The how and when couldn't be explained. What could he explain? How could he explain it? There was a time and place for everything. At some point in time, his feelings had grown, and it was perfectly normal, the feelings he held for her. His feelings were normal for a thirteen year old boy. He had to remind himself of that sometimes; he was a thirteen year old boy.

His feelings could've stemmed from how shamelessly she smiled while two chains of braces decorated her lower and upper teeth. It could've been how stubborn and determined she could be when she wanted something, when she really wanted it. Maybe, just maybe, it could've been how lazy her eyes could get when she had nothing to do. One moment she was up and about; the next she was falling asleep in her desk, drool trailing on the side of her mouth. Dick didn't know the reason for it, and he wasn't going to attempt to find it. All he knew, all that cared to him, was that there was a fluttering sensation breaking free in the pit of his abdomen, and it was steadily rising.

The time for waiting was over. The time for calculating was over. The time of doubt had ended. The time had come; he had to set his plan to motion.

Unwittingly, his shoes squeaked on the carpet floor, another unexplained moment. The squeak caught her attention, and her eyes moved away from the book that she was reading. Her lips perked into a welcoming, chained decorated smile.

Again, the fluttering sensation.

Dick sucked in a gallon of breath and released it slowly. The time had come, it was over.

Cautiously but freely he advanced towards her. He clenched and unclenched his hands. The smile on his face was small and crooked, but it was a tender smile, "Hi Em'. How ya been?"

* * *

The team of six stood silently in front of their three Justice League mentors while they awaited the responses to their latest mission. In hindsight, the mission had been completed with exceptionally well above expectations, but they were unable to pinpoint the meaning of their uneasiness. Of the three mentors, Batman stood out, his masked eyes glaring but not accusingly. Their outfits were torn and bruises were markably visible, but it all came with the job, and he heard no complaints from the six. The seconds had passed on like minutes, but finally, Batman opened his mouth. The six bodies tensed at the familiar deep and commanding tone, the tone they were most accustomed to.

"The results were above satisfactory." His eyes detailed the each of them, "Well done."

As his eyes detailed and trailed the young team, they rested on Robin, who returned the look on a lesser note, "Robin."

It wasn't needed to see the expression on his friends' faces to feel them, especially Kid Flash's, but he made sure not to look back or react to them. Batman stepped away from the group, and Robin moved to his side, falling in step with his mentor.

"Alfred has your suit prepared at home," his voice didn't lose its seriousiness once it was out of the team's hearing range, "and I have your corsage waiting for you."

When he eased himself into the leather seat behind Batman's in the Batmobile, "Don't you think you're going a little bit far with this dance thing?"

One hand was on the switch that set the Batmobile into flight mode, "You do want to do this right, don't you?"

Robin nodded, "I don't want to do it wrong."

"You get the girl a corsage," final conviction was in his voice, "always."

"Whatever." He shrugged and buckled himself up, "Of course the playboy billionaire would know what a girl _wants_."

Robin knew he was right when Batman didn't respond. He didn't give the boy the satisfaction of hearing the sly remark, but Robin knew nonetheless. His silence spoke louder than spoken words; he was going to take his mentor's words into consideration. Robin held his expectations for the night; nothing went as planned for him, but he hoped it would come close to it. The faint smile that flew onto his face made Batman feel happy for the boy, although he didn't show that happiness.

"Yeah," Robin breathed dreamily, "I'm totally going to feel the aster tonight."

* * *

**A/N: **It's Valentine's Day. This is my Valentine story for 2011, and it is a Dick Grayson/Robin and Bruce Wayne/Batman centric. I didn't want it to be DickOc centric; I wanted it to be hinted, but more of Bruce giving his young protege some advice on the opposite sex. If you like this, if you don't like this, or if you're torn between-leave a review. Please, I beg of thee, leave a review. Thank you to those who have read this story.

Have a wonderful week and a happy Valentine's Day!


End file.
